


All the Way Down

by nomelon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark, Dubious Consent, Future Fic, Hair-pulling, Incest, Kissing, Kittens, Loneliness, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomelon/pseuds/nomelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has been alone for three years when Dean reappears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: post season four
> 
> Dedication: For too many reasons to count, gratitude and congratulations at the top of the list, this is for dreamlittlyo, who once upon a time asked me for: _Would... would you write me dub/non-con involving Sam and too much alcohol? Overpowering Dean, or guilting Dean, or wherever the muse wants to go... not demons or sex pollen or a witch's spell... just Sam screwing up all on his own and making a mess of things. Or, um... I'll settle for something with kittens if you'd prefer to write that._
> 
> And I looked at the _dub/non-con_ part of it and went... _ulp_.

Sam rests his forehead against the door to his motel room, and it's a welcome pressure on his skull. He searches his pockets for the room key, closing his eyes to block out the sight of the bad paintjob over scratched wood. It's quiet out; the hush ringing loud in his ears. The only sound is occasional distant traffic on Highway 16 and a shudder-hum as somewhere an air-conditioning unit kicks on. The night is pressing in, close and hot, making his hair curl damp on the back of his neck and his shirt stick to his skin.

His mouth is dry with whiskey that sours his stomach and leaves his body loose-limbed and heavy. All he wants is to fall face first onto his bed and sleep it all away. He shouldn't have drunk so much, but he's been telling himself that for months now, years maybe, and he likes it this way. He likes feeling invulnerable when he's at his most susceptible. He likes being out of synch with the world, teetering on the brink of messy belligerence, his brain fuzzy around the edges. He likes it even better that there's no one around for him to take it out on.

He steps over the salt line into the dark of his room and he's getting sloppy in his old age -- the wrong side of thirty, older than he has any right to be -- because the door is already closing behind him before he realises he isn't alone. Not so sloppy that he doesn't have a knife in his hand and his back to the wall before the bedside lamp clicks on. There's a spear of pain as his pupils contract, and he blinks rapidly, because what he's seeing can't possibly be real.

Dean is sitting in the chair beside the window.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says quietly, and it's surreal, like watching an actor say Dean's lines for him. His voice sounds a little off; rougher and deeper than Sam remembers it.

The knife falls from Sam's hand to the floor. He's been running on empty for so long that seeing Dean sitting there is like being pushed off a cliff. The world swings back into startling focus, and Sam can't catch a breath, his body alive and hyperaware, the heat suddenly stifling, his clothes prickling against his over-sensitive skin.

What's supposed to happen is that Dean flicks his gaze away, that age-old sign of weakness, that little tell that he's never quite been able to master. The one that shows them both that he's never been able to deny Sam anything, that he was wrong and he knows it, that he didn't come here to fight, because fighting implies that Dean thinks he has something worth defending.

What's supposed to happen is Dean throwing out some flippant remark, flashing that sharp, lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. The one he's always used as a hook to draw Sam in, flipping the switch between anger and brotherly annoyance, a foundation on which they can rebuild their bridges.

What actually happens is that Sam drags Dean out of the chair and slams him up against the wall, desperation and years of loneliness and bitter hurt propelling him forward, making his muscles burn with the urge to lift, hit, impact, _connect_. It's nothing more than instinct to get closer, to force the issue, and he'd push Dean right through the wall if he could.

What actually happens is Sam's hand wrapped around Dean's throat, pinning his big brother to the wall, Sam's heavy boots anchored on the ratty carpet, pushing in with his whole body.

Dean chokes out a laugh, a shocked, painful little thing, and it's this that tips Sam over the edge into real anger, because who the fuck is Dean to find any of this _funny_?

Dean's hair is longer than Sam can remember ever seeing it. It drives him crazy because it's a change, a difference to mark the passing of time, because he can make a fist in it and pull, exposing the line of Dean's throat. He watches a fat droplet of sweat slide down from behind Dean's ear until it disappears into the collar of his t-shirt. Sam rubs his thumb over the path it took, catching first on the damp collar before he hits skin, salt-edged and clammy.

The room is hot as hell, and he thinks vaguely about the air-con, but it's mundane and too far away, not worth taking his hands off of Dean for, and he doesn't want to give either of them the breathing space.

Sam's skin is too tight; his shirt a constant itch between his shoulder blades. His old, worn jeans fall loose and soft around his hips, dragging against his hipbones, and he leans into Dean, feeling the sharp pull of the thick material, the loose change in Dean's pocket and the fast thumping pulse of the artery in his stomach.

"You left," Sam chokes out, his fist still in Dean's hair, tilting his head back so far it has to hurt. "You just left. I didn't know if you--" He swallows heavily. "I didn't know where you were. After everything, Dean. After _everything_. You fucking left me there."

"I wasn't leaving you. I just couldn't stay."

"How could you do that?"

"Had to," is all Dean will say, over and over, quiet and calm. "Had to, Sam. I had to."

And Sam hates him for it.

Dean held out in Hell for thirty years before they broke him, but he's only been able to stay away from Sam for three.

Sam bites down on the line of Dean's throat, right in that sweet spot just under his jaw. Dean's beard rasps against Sam's teeth and tickles the tip of his nose when Sam breathes him in. Sam can taste salt and sweat and the red clay dust he's been choking on for days driving back and forth all over Neshoba County on the trail of his latest hunt: a shapeshifter with an unhealthy appetite for little girls.

The beard and the longer hair make Dean look more like their father than he has any right to. His mouth is soft and warm behind the bristles. He tastes like Sam's childhood, familiar and constant, the faint tang of coffee and the endless open road.

What's supposed to happen is that Dean gets his act together and pushes Sam away, getting half a room between them, breathing fast and angry, thumbing Sam's spit off his lips and looking at Sam like he's disgusting, like it was a mistake to ever come back.

What's supposed to happen is the old, reliable big brother irritation and confusion, pretending like this isn't them, that this isn't what they do.

What's supposed to happen is Dean ignoring the hell out of the enormous fucking elephant in the room, pretending like this isn't what it always eventually comes down to between them. Dean's supposed to put Sam in his place, but then let it go, change the subject and let it all fade away, because he's Dean, and that's what he does. He always gives Sam one for free.

What actually happens is they stumble across the floor, Dean too surprised to do anything but fall when Sam shoves him towards the bed.

Sam covers Dean's mouth, biting on his lips, drinking him down and forgetting about little things like oxygen and the fact that Dean's going to bruise if Sam bites too hard. Dean's foot kicks off the floor, sending the bed screeching a couple of inches under them. His hands grab at the sheets as he tries to shove out from under Sam's body, but Sam holds him there, not letting up.

Maybe it was fear that made Dean leave. Maybe it was that twisted stubborn streak he's always tried to hide, haphazard and obvious under all his endless self-sacrifice when it comes to his family. Dean will give and give and give of himself until it comes right down to the line and even then he'll keep right on going, refusing to let anything hurt his family. He'll die, he'll go to Hell and worse before he lets anyone harm them, and nothing and nobody can make him change his mind. Leave it to Dean Winchester to be the only man in all of creation who could find a thing worse than Hell to throw himself into just so he isn't the one who's left behind.

His noble self-sacrifice -- because it is noble, Sam isn't cruel enough to take that away from him -- it makes Sam sick to his stomach. It always has.

"You didn't have to leave me behind," Sam says, low and serious. "Nothing that happened was your fault. We were pawns, man. Our whole lives. Fucking pawns. You couldn't help what happened. I know what it's like, having something like that inside you. You can't help--"

"You know what it's _like_?"

Dean gives one good shove with his whole body and almost manages to throw Sam off the bed, but he's got no leverage and Sam has gravity on his side.

"Don't you say that to me. You haven't got the first fucking clue. No one does. After that clusterfuck... Jesus, Sam, I almost didn't make it. I got to play meatsuit to the Grand Poobah of Evil himself. You know what it's like? You don't have any idea. Not the first clue. After all the shit that went down, I had to get lost and stay lost. I couldn't even kill myself. No point. I knew exactly where I'd end up."

"_Dean_."

Dean shakes his head bitterly. "It's the truth, Sam. You don't have to like it. After what I'd been through, nothing mattered anymore."

"Nothing?" Sam asks, hating the need and the hint of resentment in his voice, laying him wide open.

Dean's jaw tightens and the way he looks at Sam, like there's nothing else worth having in this world or the next, it closes like a fist around Sam's heart. Sam knows, there and then, he's never letting go of Dean again.

"Dean," he says, and his chest aches with it. "I missed you, man. I really fucking missed you. Every day."

Dean's expression doesn't change, but there's something softer in his eyes as he lifts his head to touch their mouths together.

It's too gentle, too sweet, and Sam tries, he does, but he can't make this into something that it's not. He needs the heat and the struggle. If he lets this turn into something softer right now, it might shatter him into a million pieces. He doesn't remember how to be soft and loving. That Sam died a long time ago.

Dean accepts his kisses and doesn't complain when Sam makes them messy and hard, but he bucks and struggles when Sam gets a hand between them and starts working at Dean's fly. He freezes, breaking their kiss to suck in a sharp breath when Sam gets a hand on his brother's dick for the first time in years. Dean is hard as marble, but he's still trying to twist away, muttering things about this not being right, and it not being the reason he came back. Sam just keeps on kissing him, trying to make Dean forget about little things like talking, playing pretend that if he keeps distracting Dean with his mouth that Dean won't notice the way Sam is tugging Dean's jeans out of the way, sliding two fingers that aren't nearly wet enough lower and lower, making Dean buck and twist underneath him, ripping his mouth away from Sam's to hiss and swear.

Sam doesn't let up, circling and teasing and dipping instead, and he'd like to pretend that he's keeping it light and easy, because they've never done this together before, and he has no idea if this is something that Dean _does_, but he's too far gone. He honestly has no idea if Dean is humouring him or if he really can't get free from the way Sam has him pinned to the bed. It's all he can do to murmur, "Relax, relax. Dean, yeah, just. So long since you were-- Unhh-yeah, _fuck_. Need this. Need it. 't'll be good. Promise. Promise." But he has no idea if he means it.

He doesn't let up, pushing their mouths together, too far gone to make it a proper kiss as he nudges up between Dean's legs. His dick is hot and blood-heavy, rubbing up against Dean's thigh.

Sam spits in his hand, smearing spit and precome as best he can, and Dean hisses and grabs for the headboard. He turns his face away, eyes screwed tight shut as Sam holds his hips tight enough to bruise and pushes inside.

What's supposed to happen is Sam stops. Sam suffers a horrifying moment of clarity and backs off, realises this isn't right, this is his brother, and they're not supposed to be doing this.

What actually happens is Sam keeps going, keeps pushing in and in and _in_. A slow, burning press, nowhere near enough slick, until he's as far inside Dean as he can go, harder than he's been in his life, heat roiling in his gut. The room is suddenly too quiet, Sam's breath trapped in his throat, Dean breathing short and quick, his body clenching and releasing, squeezing tight and hot around Sam.

"Do it, Sam," Dean says in a hoarse voice when Sam doesn't move, just stays buried deep, his whole body tense and trembling. "Do it. Fuck you. Come on. _Do it_."

Sam starts fucking him. It's tight and awkward, hurting them both, but there's a sweet burn underneath it and once Sam starts moving he can't stop. He has never been able to stop wanting this. He claws at Dean, wanting to split him open and climb inside until they're fused together. He wants bury himself inside Dean over and over, world without end, his body working like a machine. Dean is fluid under him, head thrown back and mouth open, a silent stunned expression, and he's just fucking _taking_ it.

"Wasn't you, Dean," Sam says, breathing the words against Dean's skin. "Wasn't you. Any of it. Just the thing inside you."

"Shut up, shut up, Sammy, _please_."

"Don't care what you had to do. Don't care. It wasn't you. Wasn't."

"Shut up, Sam. Shut up. Shut up. I swear to fucking god I'll kill you if you don't shut the fuck up."

Dean's face is twisted up, the sharp huh-huh-huh of his breathing though bared teeth as he grips and strains, every muscle overworked and shaking.

Sam hitches and sobs into Dean's throat, his teeth bared, his body bowed, his hips jerking into Dean over and over. Under the burn of pleasure, he can feel the pull of old, uneven stitches in his side and the dull ache of bruises that go bone deep.

Sam gets a hand between them and touches their bodies where they're joined. He spreads his fingers around his cock, feeling himself disappearing inside Dean. He hooks his arms under Dean's thighs and pulls him closer, spreading his legs further and opening him up. It's awkward on his knees, curled over Dean like this, heavy and needy; Dean's cock hard and leaking against his stomach, a hot line of need pressed against him.

When Sam comes it's euphoria and white noise. It's Dean's hands gripping tight and sliding on his sweaty skin. It's Dean's heel digging into his cramping thigh. It's the rough fur of Dean's beard scratching his lips, the hot splash of Dean's come on his stomach, Dean groaning loud and obscene in his ear.

Dean came back to him and Sam's never letting go again.

Sam pulls out, and he has to do it slow, Dean's body arching under him, Dean's face crumpled in pain. Sam collapses on top of him, slumped to one side, too tired to move, strung out and quivering with exhaustion. Dean's harsh breathing is loud in his ear; Dean's hand on the back of Sam's head giving him something to hold on to as their bodies calm down.

Sam lays his hand over Dean's heart, and he can feel the beat of it, strong and steady. His fingertips brush Dean's tattoo, tracing back and forth over the old scar tissue that slashes through the ink.

Sam knows he should apologise. He should let them get cleaned up. He should do a lot of things.

Instead he pushes his face into Dean's throat, tangles their legs together, and just holds on.

  
\---

  
Sam opens his eyes and it's morning. He lies still and frowns. Something isn't right, so he just lies there, frowning and hung-over with a dull throb behind his eyes, waiting for the world to come crashing back in.

Dean.

Sam sits bolt upright, like he's hinged at the waist, just another Tuesday, and the room lurches.

Dean isn't there.

Sam rubs tight little circles at his temples, doing little to ease his pounding headache, and he goes through the motions. He goes to the bathroom and takes a leak, then soaks his head under the faucet. He drinks three glasses of stale water that pools in his empty, cramping stomach, and he grips the edge of the sink, his feet cold on the tiled floor, his stomach churning. He feels bruised inside and out.

He half-expects to find the Impala gone, Dean taking back what he left in Sam's keeping, but she's still parked right where he left her. He finds Dean sitting in the shade on a battered old bench outside the motel, under a tattered poster for The Neshoba County Fair that's flapping gently in the early morning breeze that brings a blessed reprieve from the heat. _Mississippi's Giant House Party_, the poster declares, but they've missed it by more than a month. Dean is drinking coffee and watching cars go by on the highway. He has one hand curled to his chest and for a horrible moment, Sam thinks he's hurt.

Then he sees it. Dean is holding a tiny brown and white kitten, feeding it pieces of his breakfast burrito. He looks up, squinting in the thin sunshine, and there's a sliver of the old, brash Dean, embarrassed to be caught playing with a kitten.

Sam stands there, watching for a long time. "Probably has fleas, you know," he says eventually.

"I'll be sure an' tell you if I start itching."

Sam sits at the far end of the bench, and together they watch the traffic go by, red dust swirling around their boots, space of miles and miles separating them, the kitten digging its claws into Dean's jeans as he lets it bite on his fingers. The early morning sun sets deep crinkles around Dean's eyes and glints red-gold in his beard.

"So where've you been?" Sam asks quietly.

Dean squints at a passing campervan. "You know," he says. "Around."

It hits Sam in a rush. All of it. Years and years of torment and loneliness, guilt and love. He wants to reach out. He wants to make it right. In the end, he just wants his big brother back.

"Been a long time, Dean." He has to whisper, his voice so dry and dusty that he knows if he tries for more it'll crack. "Long time."

"After I got out of Hell," Dean says, watching a battered old Mack truck rumble by. "I never thought... Well. I didn't think I deserved it anymore."

"It?"

"Life, you know? A clean slate -- if that's even what it was with all those strings attached. But still. I didn't think I should be allowed to be walking and talking. Not after... Not after what I did down there." He smiles, and it's the saddest thing Sam's ever seen. "Yeah, well. Nothing made a damn bit of sense. So I did what I always did."

"Me," Sam says, his voice wavering. "You took care of me."

"S'all I know how to do, Sammy," Dean says quietly.

"Why did you _leave_ me?"

Dean just presses his lips together and looks out at the horizon.

"I could have helped you, Dean. I could have helped you get through it."

Dean glances down at the kitten chewing on his thumb. "No," he says. "You couldn't. There are some things... Lucifer, man. The goddamn Devil incarnate. You don't just walk away from something like that. It was so far beyond any kind of fubar shit we'd been through before. Think I went a little crazy for a while, there, Sammy. I didn't want to leave you, but you know I had to go. I had to."

"Still trying to protect me," Sam says, working his jaw. "So why'd you come back?"

"Figured it was time to stop hiding."

"You got it all out of your system?"

Dean is quiet for a long time. When he looks up, he's wearing that same sad smile and Sam could swear that his eyes are black mirrors. Sam desperately wants to put it all down to the combination of sunspots and a killer hangover, but he's honestly not sure, and it breaks his heart.

"I think we both know that's never going to happen," Dean says. He blinks and his eyes are endless green.

Sam closes his eyes and rubs at them hard with his knuckles. He remembers Ruby's sad smile, the way her last body seemed to soften her, the way he'd catch her looking at him when she thought he couldn't see, the way he'd never been able to resist her towards the end; her endless, painful struggle with everything that she was, with everything she made him believe in. The way she'd loved him; and all the lies she'd told him, right from the very beginning.

Dean goes back to scratching the kitten under its chin and Sam's pretty sure he does it so he doesn't have to watch Sam scrub the tears out of his eyes.

"I don't care what happened back then, Dean. I don't even care."

"You should."

"Yeah. Well. I don't."

The kitten mews and bumps its head against Dean's stomach, looking for more burrito.

"Last night..." Sam begins, hating himself, but he has to know. "Did I hurt you?"

Dean glances up, a tiny flicker of a thing. He's not angry, not accusing, but the way he's looking at Sam, it's enough that Sam feels sick to his stomach. He's all too aware of the dark bruises visible around the collar of Dean's t-shirt.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, his eyes on the kitten.

"Didn't ask for an apology, Sammy."

"I know. I just... I needed to say it."

Sam steals Dean's coffee, just to give him something to do with his hands. It's tar-black with two sugars -- some things never change -- and it burns his tongue when he gulps at it. He scratches at his eyebrow with his thumbnail, and he scratches too hard, trying to stop his hand from shaking. The pain feels good. It gives him focus.

"You staying with me?" he asks, and the world swims.

Dean doesn't answer. He just watches the kitten intently as it bites on the pad of his thumb. Sam gulps more coffee and tries not to think about anything, anything at all, as Dean toys with the kitten, making a cage out of his fingers, upping the ante as it snarls and pounces.

The coffee burns all the way down.

  
-end-


End file.
